Tourist Season

Jesus Bernal scowled and mumbled something crude in Spanish. "I spit on their mothers," he declared. "If they got on their knees I wouldn't go back. Never!"

This was a total lie: Jesus Bernal yearned to abandon Skip Wiley's circus and rejoin his old gang of dedicated extortionists, bombers, and firebugs. In his heart Jesus Bernal believed his special talents were being wasted. Whenever he thought about Wiley's crazy plan he got a sour stomach that wouldn't go away. Somehow he couldn't visualize the masses ever mobilizing behind El Fuego;besides, if Wiley had his way, there'd be no masses left to mobilize—they'd all be heading North. These doubts had begun the day Ernesto Cabal hanged himself; guilt was a deadly emotion for a stouthearted terrorist, but guilt is what Jesus Bernal felt. He didn't feel particularly good about feeding strangers to crocodiles, either. It wasn't that the Cuban sympathized with gringotourists, but Wiley's peculiar method of murder did not seem like the kind of political statement Las Noches de Diciembreought to be making. And if nothing else, Jesus Bernal considered himself an expert on political statements.

"This is the place," Viceroy Wilson a

Great, thought Jesus Bernal. He wished Wiley would just let him alone with the typewriter and plastique.

Wilson parked the car in front of a two-story office building on Biscayne Boulevard at Seventy-ninth. A sign out front said: "Greater Miami Orange Bowl Committee."

"Comb your hair," Wilson grumbled.

"Shut up."

"You look like a damn Marielito."

"And you look like my father's yard man."

The lady at the reception desk didn't like the looks of either of them. "Yes?" she said with a polite Southern lilt unmistakable in its derision.

"We're here about the advertisement," Viceroy Wilson explained, shedding his Carreras.

"Yes?"

"The ad for security guards," Jesus Bernal said.

"Security guards," Wilson said, "for the Orange Bowl Parade."

"I see," said the Southern lady, warily handing each of them a job application. "And you both have some experience?"

"Do we ever," said Viceroy Wilson, smiling his touchdown smile.

When Brian Keyes awoke, the first thing he noticed was a woman on top of him in the hospital bed. Her blond head lay on his shoulder, and she seemed to be sleeping. Keyes strained to get a glimpse of her face, but every little movement brought a fresh jolt of pain.

The woman weighed heavily on his chest; his ribs still ached from the surgery. Keyes stared down at the soft hair and sniffed for fragrant clues; it wasn't easy, especially with the tube up his nose.

"Je

The woman on his chest stirred and gave a little hum of a reply.

"Je

She looked up with a sleepy-eyed hello.

"You sound just like George Burns. Want some water?"

Keyes nodded. He let out a sigh when Je

"Where'd you get the nurse's uniform?"

"You like it?" She hitched up the hem. "Check out the white stockings."

Keyes sipped at the cold water; his throat was a furnace.

"What time is it? What day?"

"December 10, my love. Ten-thirty P.M. Way past visiting hours. That's why I had to wear this silly outfit."

"You'd make a spectacular nurse. I'm getting better by the second."

Je

Keyes shut his eyes and faked a snore.

"Now stop!" Je

"Skip didn't tell you?"

She looked away. "I haven't talked to him."

Keyes thought: She must think I've had brain surgery.

"What happened out there?" she asked again.

"I got knifed by one of Skip's caballeros "

"I don't believe it," Je

Pausing only for gulps of water, Keyes related the sad tale of Mrs. Kimmelman. For once Je

"That poor woman. Do you think she died?"

Keyes nodded patiently. "I'm pretty sure."

Je

"Je

When she turned to face him, her eyes were moist. She was trying to keep it inside, trying to recoup like the magnificent actress she was.

"I'm s-s-so sorry," she cried. "I didn't know you'd get hurt."

Keyes held out his hand. "I'm all right. C'mere."

She climbed back into bed, sobbing on his shoulder. At first the pain was murderous, but Je

Je

"Skip's a little crazy, Je

"Of course he is."

"Slightly crazier than usual," Keyes said. "He's killing off tourists."

"I figured it'd be something like that. But it's not really murder, is it? I mean murderin the criminal way."

"Je

"He sent me a Mailgram," she said.

"A Mailgram?"

"It said: 'Dear Je

Keyes asked, "Did you do it? Did you burn the Rolodex?"

"Of course not," Je

Keyes grimaced, not from pain.

"Look at all these tubes," Je

"Glucose. Tomorrow I'm back on solids and in three days I'll be out of here. Je

"I've no idea."

"You've got to find him. He's killed four people."

"Not personally he hasn't." Je

Keyes turned to one side and lifted his right arm.

"Oh, boy," said Je

"Nasty, huh?"

"Looks like a railroad track." She traced the wound with a finger, light as a feather. Keyes shivered pleasurably.

"Did the knife hit your lung? Or was it a knife?" Je

"Nicked it," Keyes said.

"Ouch," Je

Keyes flushed. He knew what she meant. Really.

"Woozy," he said, thinking: Something extraordinary is happening here; maybe Wiley's under the bed.

"Too woozy? What if I took this one away ... would you be all right? Could you breathe?"

"Well, let's find out," Keyes said. Of course she couldn't be serious. Not here.He removed the oxygen tube and took three breaths.

"Okay?" Je

Keyes nodded; it was pain he could live with.

Je

"I think we should make love," Je

Keyes was stupefied. Considering what had happened the last few days, maybe he was due for a miracle. Maybe this was God's way of balancing fate. Or maybe it was something else altogether. Keyes didn't care; it was bound to be his last spell of infinite pleasure until Skip Wiley was caught or killed.

"It's possible I still love you, Brian," said Je

"What about the nurses?"

"We'll be oh-so-quiet." Je